


Between Two Lungs (It Was Released)

by nightshifted



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshifted/pseuds/nightshifted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're the best thing I never had." (glee_rare_pairs pinch hit)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Two Lungs (It Was Released)

**i.**

 _"Sexting?"_

 _"Sexy texting. Seriously, what era are you from?"_

It's not that Santana has fat fingers, which actually, now that she thinks about it, might come in handy for other reasons entirely. It's that her phone's address book is freaking possessed. Like when she sent out a text asking _are you wearing pants right now?_ , she hadn't expected Quinn goddamn Fabray to respond. Mostly because she hadn't meant to send it to the chastity princess at all. Quinn would go all preachy on her ass about some bullshit like abstinence – which, hello, hypocrite – and throw herself a pity party about how her life is over now that she got knocked up. It's like, a complete boner killer.

But Santana's staring at her phone, and sure enough, a text from Quinn blinks back at her: _Not that it's any of your business but no._

Santana settles back and quickly taps out another message.

 _lemme guess. they don't fit anymore._

Quinn doesn't reply immediately, and Santana's barely done smirking about how awesome that comeback was when her phone buzzes in her hand, and—

 _I'm in bed, you moron._

Santana has to double-check the number this time. Then, she laughs, her fingers flying over the keys.

 _are you horny?_

 _Wtf no. I'm sick and holed up in bed. What's wrong with you?_

 _you know what helps? an orgasm. do you know how to give yourself one?_

When Quinn doesn't respond, Santana takes it as another no, and proceeds to text Quinn instructions on how to masturbate. She's mostly laughing at this point, because she knows Quinn's getting all tight-ass prude about the entire thing, but surprisingly, through nine detailed and explicit texts about how to touch her clit and how to finger fuck herself, Quinn never once tells Santana to stop.

A half-hour later, after Santana's rubbed one out herself, her phone buzzes again. It's Quinn, and all it says is: _Thanks…_

 

 **ii.**

 _"You got a boob job."_

 _"Yup, sure did."_

So Fabray doesn't have a bun in the oven anymore. Her bun is off in another chick's bakery, which totally works in everyone's favor. And Santana doesn't have to feel guilty for knocking that bitch down a step after she rats her out to Coach Sylvester. Lame doesn't even begin to cover it.

The Cheerios locker room becomes a little tense after that.

Everyone knows that Quinn's back on top, but most have also been under Santana's reign for the better part of a year, so the rest of the squad mostly tries to avoid confrontation. Brittany just looks like she's being asked to choose between a unicorn and a fairy.

Santana gets back at Quinn in the one way she knows how: with her own body.

It's not that she thinks Quinn is lady gay. Well, okay, she's totally had a suspicion since the first time Quinn got a shot of those spanks and started blushing like a twelve-year-old, but anyway, Santana knows that if anything, Quinn responds to sexuality with discomfort.

So Santana makes sure to 'accidentally' drop her towel when she leaves the shower, or 'accidentally' brush up against Quinn's ass, or 'accidentally' pin her against the lockers and eye fuck her until she's breathing hard and grinding her hips, and yeah, it's way too easy.

What Santana doesn't expect is Quinn, in full Cheerios uniform, to march straight into her shower stall while the water's still running and she's buck naked.

"Uh, I'm showering," Santana points out needlessly.

"Stop it," Quinn hisses.

Santana rolls her eyes. "What are you, the shower police? If I feel like showering until my skin prunes up, that's what I'm gonna do." She makes a point to rub her palms over her breasts, flicking her nipples between her fingers.

Quinn looks away. "Not that. Stop— _everything_. Just stop. Stop touching me, and stop shoving your boobs in my face."

Santana smirks and steps closer to Quinn, whose clothes are soaked through from the spray of the shower head. "Just admit that you're a stupid bitch for tattling on me, and it'll all go away."

"I just told the truth!"

Santana lets out a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, when'd you learn how to do that? Before or after you popped out that bastard lizard baby?"

" _Don't_ talk about Beth like that."

In a flash, Santana has Quinn pressed against the wall of the shower, a leg slipped between Quinn's thighs, pinning her there. Quinn groans, throwing her head back, and Santana bucks her hips to get them started. Quinn shamelessly rides Santana's thigh until her face scrunches up, her body tensing around a suppressed moan that bubbles from her throat.

Quinn's mouth opens and closes, and then she's shoving Santana away and stumbling out of the shower stall.

 

 **iii.**

 _"You like her more than me! She's blonde and awesome and so smart. Admit it!"_

Santana's head is spinning so badly, and all she wants to do is cry and fuck, maybe both at the same time, but she's not really sure how the mechanics of that would work out. Sam has passed out already, and making out with an unconscious body stopped being fun about as soon as it started. Puck and Mike are mumbling gibberish to each other in the corner, Rachel is singing a slurred rendition of _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ , and Quinn is curled up on the couch, looking around the room with unfocused eyes. Everyone else has already left.

Santana flops down on the couch next to Quinn and pulls a stray blanket over their laps. She leans in, the alcohol blurring her vision, and she misjudges the distance from her face to Quinn's. Her forehead falls to Quinn's shoulder, lips gliding across Quinn's collarbone.

Quinn's breath hitches, and she turns her head until Santana's is cocooned in the crook of her neck.

Santana's hand wanders under the blanket, lightly fingering Quinn's hipbones as they head south, dipping between Quinn's thighs and wrinkling her dress. Quinn says nothing, just shuts her eyes and leans back against the couch, sliding her hips forward to give Santana more room.

Santana reaches lower and finds the hem of Quinn's dress. She tugs it until it bunches up around Quinn's waist. The alcohol is screwing with Santana's manual dexterity, but she manages to push Quinn's panties aside and flick her fingers over Quinn's clit. Quinn lets out a groan that's thankfully drowned out by Rachel's warbling.

Santana isn't surprised when a hand grips her wrist, stopping her movements.

Quinn's eyes flutter open. "Not here."

Santana laughs loudly enough for Mike and Puck to momentarily turn their attention to her. Quinn flushes and slaps Santana's hand away. And not that Santana is usually careful with her words, but the alcohol has loosened her tongue.

"Don't play hard-to-get, Q," Santana growls. "I can't knock you up or mess you up. I just want to finger you a little."

At that, Quinn's body jerks, and she takes a deep breath and nods. Santana discreetly slides her hand back between Quinn's thighs, gently nudging them apart. She pushes Quinn's underwear to the side and explores slowly, moving up and down and touching everywhere her fingers can reach until Quinn's panting and twisting under her touch.

With Quinn at her mercy, Santana slips a finger in, then a second, and Quinn grabs her wrist again. Not hard enough to stop her, just hard enough to press marks into Santana's skin. Santana shuts her eyes and thrusts her fingers, quickly at first, then slowly, alternating in pace until Quinn's body practically curls around her fingers.

Santana takes satisfaction in that, in knowing that Quinn Fabray, perfect head cheerleader, brought up by traditional Christian values and uptight Christian parents, is coming apart in her hands.

Quinn's fist tightens around Santana's wrist the same moment her body does around Santana's fingers, and Santana draws lazy circles around Quinn's clit until Quinn tugs Santana's hand away, primly rearranges her dress, and stands up on wobbly legs.

Quinn's cheeks are flushed, and she looks freshly fucked, but she somehow still manages an air of elegance when she turns and walks away.

 

 **iv.**

 _"You suck so bad, Quinn Fabray. I won!"_

When all's said and done, it isn't the worst prom ever, but it isn't the greatest, either. Santana's happy for Kurt and his prince charming, really, but that crown should've been hers. Her freaking running mate won Prom King, for fuck's sake.

At the end of the night, there are parties to crash and an entire town to trash, but Santana finds herself at Quinn's. With Quinn. With _only_ Quinn. Santana feels drained and not much in the mood for partying, and Quinn's mother is never around.

Santana groans as she flops down on Quinn's bed and starts to unzip her dress. "When did we become the boring ones?"

Quinn takes a seat at the edge of her bed and shrugs. Her hand swings up and wipes at her eyes.

Santana slips out of her dress, leaving her in a strapless bra and panties. She's about to look for her change of clothes when she notices. "Oh my god, Quinn, are you seriously crying right now?"

Quinn turns her head away and sniffs. "No. Shut up."

"You're such a baby," Santana mutters, rolling her eyes. "Newsflash: You're not the only one who lost tonight."

"I wanted it more," Quinn bites out. "All you wanted was to one-up me, but I _needed_ it."

"You're an idiot," Santana replies flatly, crouching down to dig through her bag. "You think I wanted Prom Queen solely to make your life miserable? Because I can't just want to feel good about myself too, right? It's always about _you_."

Santana stands up without taking her clothes, her hands finding her hips. Quinn's eyes flash as they scan Santana's half-naked body.

"The world doesn't revolve around you, Quinn. Get used to it."

Quinn's eyes lower. "I just want—"

"I'm _gay_ ," Santana blurts out, cutting Quinn off. "Your pretty white ass is going to have everything handed to you your entire life, but people believing that Karofsky's dick gets me going might be the only thing that's normal about my life. Do you get it now? My campaign was never about you. Fuck you for thinking it." She looks down at her bag. "And fuck clothes. Take off your dress."

Quinn bites her lip, even as her hand reaches around to find the zipper along her spine. "What are we doing?"

And Santana knows that she doesn't mean at this moment, because that's pretty clear. In the general scope of things, Santana has no idea. She swallows hard. "I don't know," she answers earnestly. Then, gentler, "Take off your dress, Q."

Quinn pulls her dress over her head and lies down on her bed. Santana joins her a moment later, but she doesn't try to do anything, just lies next to her, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

"Everything's kinda screwed up, isn't it?"

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Santana pushes herself up and offers Quinn a sad smile before sliding down the length of her body and settling between her legs. She hooks her fingers around the waistband of Quinn's underwear and pulls them down. Santana wastes no time; she flattens her tongue against Quinn's clit and slowly rolls it up. Quinn's hand immediately finds the back of Santana's head to guide her.

Santana licks all around, flicking her tongue out to taste her. Quinn's thighs press against the sides of Santana's head, and her fingers, tangled in dark hair, smooth over the nape of Santana's neck.

It's not romantic, but it stirs Santana's insides, makes her feel _something_ that isn't anxiety for the future, and maybe, maybe it's all Quinn wants from her, too.

 

 **v.**

 _"I think I know how to make you feel better."_

 _"I'm flattered, Santana, but I'm really not that into that."_

Santana is a light sleeper, which is terrible when it comes to sharing a room with five other girls, especially when Mercedes snores, Rachel talks in her sleep, and Brittany kicks like a horse.

So she ends up spending most of the morning dosing herself with copious amounts of coffee. On their last day in New York, Quinn finds her on one of the couches in the hotel lobby and takes a seat next to her.

"Who invited you?" Santana grumbles, wishing there was a way she could take caffeine intravenously.

Quinn says nothing for a long time, but she slips her hand into Santana's and holds it on her lap. It's too early for many people to be around yet, so Santana lets her.

"I never returned the favor," Quinn says softly.

"What favor?"

Quinn flushes and fiddles with Santana's fingers. "You know."

"Oh." Santana smirks. "I thought you weren't that into that."

Quinn leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth. "You know, Santana, you're the best thing I never had."

 

 _fin_


End file.
